


Morning People

by Tochira



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Gen, I found this in an old notebook, POV First Person, Slice of Life, or at least it predates 24-hour ATMs in Japan, seriously it's ancient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28933206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tochira/pseuds/Tochira
Summary: Omi's morning routine is both more and less mundane than one might expect.
Kudos: 2





	Morning People

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea when I originally wrote this, but at some point it was posted to the WKML, so it's pretty darn old. First person POV drives me up the wall; whatever the heck possessed me to write like this I will probably never remember. 
> 
> As ever, with WK: Canon, what canon? I blow my nose at canon! (but if you're familiar with the An Assassin and White Shaman manga, then basically that's my starting point.)

The alarm goes off at five AM, and I hit the snooze button once before I force myself to crawl out from underneath the insulating comfort of my kake-futon. After rolling up the mattress and stowing the whole thing in its cabinet, I take a quick shower and put on my school clothes.

It’s not even five-thirty yet; still quite dark outside as I make sure I have all my homework organized and my books ready to go. Nudging the door of my small refrigerator open with one foot, I take stock of what’s available for breakfast: half a bottle of apple tea, a carton of aloe-grape juice, and half a package of nikuman left over from last night’s snack. My stomach growls plaintively-- it would rather have an onigiri. I can always stop at the AM/PM on the way to school, I suppose. Still, I shuck the plastic off and pop them in the microwave. They won’t taste as good if they sit in the fridge any longer.

The deep, faint sound of the apartment door next to mine shutting tells me that Yohji’s back, and I snicker. He didn’t take his car when he went out last night; said he didn’t want to drive all the way to wherever-it-was he planned on going. I bet he missed the last train and found out he didn’t have enough cash to hail a cab for such a distance. That’ll teach him to go out without checking to see whether Ken borrowed from his wallet or not!

...Which means he’s probably hungry, as well as dead on his feet. The microwave dings, and I pile the now-scalding nikuman onto a plate and grab the carton of aloe-grape juice. Key card pinched in my mouth, I yank the door shut behind me with my foot, then take two steps and politely kick the bottom of Yohji’s door three times. It takes him a few moments to answer.

“What the hell do you want?” He hasn’t opened the door, but I know he must be glaring blearily at me through the peephole.

“Ah frough hom--” I spit out the key card and try again. “I brought some food, Yohji. Hungry?”

The door finally opens a bit, and I can hear him mutter something under his breath along the lines of ‘damn morning people--unholy hour’, but he lets me in. He’s already changed into sweatpants and a tee-shirt, and there’s a toothbrush stuck behind his ear. He reaches down and retrieves my keycard from the ground as I sidle past him through the doorway.

“I heard you come in,” I explain unnecessarily. He sighs, tosses the keycard on a side table, and goes into the bathroom to rinse his mouth. Over the sound of running water, I can’t help the grin that stretches across my face as I ask, “How was the club?”

Muffled cursing, as he comes out again rubbing at his eyes. Tossing a look of pure resentment over his shoulder, he grumbles, “Just bloody wonderful, until two in the morning.” I follow him to where he sits on the end of the couch, putting my offerings on the low table in front of him.

“Let me guess. You didn’t even have enough cash to go to another place?”

“Got it in one-- I swear, when I get my hands on Ken--” He trails off as I laugh, his fury apparently too great for his tired brain to put into words. I decide not to tell him that Ken took the cash to pay for Yohji’s own electric bill, which he had forgotten about and was in danger of being overdue. Ken will tell him... eventually.

“Worry about it later. Anyway, you’re both working this afternoon,” I feel obliged to remind him. “Now, put something in your stomach, you’ll sleep better.”

He’s already juggling a still-hot nikuman in his hands, but he eyes the carton of juice as if it might start crawling towards him. “You know that stuff weirds me out, Omi.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Quit being such a baby and drink some. It’s good for your stomach and it might keep you from having such a nasty hangover this afternoon.”

He chuckles mirthlessly. “No worries this time, kiddo. I couldn’t buy anything else after I’d had the two my entry paid for. I’ve been sober for a couple of hours at least.” He doesn’t sound happy about that at all.

I push the carton across the table anyway. “Drink some. It’s really not bad.” I can’t help grinning, again. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a carton of _juice_ , Yohji....”

He rises to the bait. Picking it up, he peers inside. “That’s not it. I just don’t drink things that go ‘plop-plop’ when you pour them into a glass.” He licks his lips, looking thoughtful. “I haven’t had anything to drink for hours, though...” He looks at me again. “If it’s awful, I’m never gonna forgive you.”

“Sure, whatever.”

He sighs and takes a swig. Makes a face, then swallows. Blinks. Looks surprised. “That... wasn’t bad.”

I have to laugh again as I retrieve the plate. Yohji’s just like that; so certain he will or won’t like something, and always so surprised when he’s wrong. “See? Live a little, Yohji.” I walk over to the door and pick up my keycard, turning back to him in time to see him bite into his nikuman, which must still be too hot, because his eyes tear up and it takes him a while to swallow. “Drink some more of that; it helps with the scalding. See you this afternoon!”

More resentful muttering. I open the door to let myself out. “And don’t be too hard on Ken!” Even the reinforced door can’t completely block the expletive that remark earns me.

I look at my watch. Time to go downstairs; I don’t usually work in the shop most weekdays, but I do help Aya get ready to open in the mornings. Technically it should be whoever works the morning shift, but Aya is always up with the sun, and I don’t really have a choice on school days-- so it’s kind of evolved into an unspoken arrangement. We get ready to open up, and Ken and Yohji clean up at the end of the day. Works quite well, really; Aya likes quiet in the morning, and I find that I enjoy the brief respite before I have to throw myself into the whirlwind of classes and chattering, excited students.

I stop back by my apartment to grab my bookbag, throwing it over one shoulder as I lock my door and continue on down the stairs. I hit the ground just as Aya is pulling up the shutter in the front. He doesn’t say anything, just nods and holds it up for me as I duck under, following and lowering it behind him again. He switches on the lights and walks over to the opposite wall, taking his apron off its peg and putting it over his head. As he turns, still tying it behind his back, I set the still-full plate down on the worktable.

“Eaten yet?” Yohji remarked once that I don’t talk quite as much when I’m speaking directly to Aya. I suppose it’s because he’s so sparing with words himself; makes me feel foolish for wasting them. I don’t mind, though. It’s just the way things work between us. It’s kind of nice, even, to know I can say so little and still be understood by someone.

“No. Thanks.” He reaches for one of the still-steaming nikuman, holding it carefully. “Have you?”

I blink. My stomach growls again, indignant that it has been forgotten. “Ah... no, not yet.” While onigiri still sounds good, the plate in front of me looks better and better. Maybe I’ll have one after all.

Aya watches as I pick up a nikuman of my own, then wordlessly turns and goes into the back room. I hear a door open and close, and feet descending the basement stairs. As I eat, I look around, making sure everything is in place from the night before. I’m about halfway through when Aya comes back in, with a teapot in one hand and two cups peeking out of an apron pocket. He sets them on the table, and pours the tea slowly. I sniff appreciatively; this is one of the perks of opening.

Out of the four of us, Aya makes the best tea. It’s never too bitter or too weak and there’s never any loose leaves floating in the cups, even if we haven’t put the strainer in. That’s why the teapot is in the basement-- when we’re working on an assignment, he always makes tea. Says it helps us think. Yohji complains that one day, he’ll have to stop in the middle of a mission to take a leak, and it’ll be Aya’s fault for making him drink all that damn tea.


End file.
